


A Mouthful of Salt to Pester the Birds

by tco



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Dean Winchester, Demon!Dean, Gen, Season/Series 10, crowley and dean's summer of love, seasons - anthology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 07:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13829193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tco/pseuds/tco
Summary: You take the salt away from a man, you get a salty demon. Salty kinda scientist demon because Dean keeps experimenting with trying to get drunk.Some fuckers, though, they just have no respect for science.Written for the Supernatural Seasons Fanfiction Anthology.





	A Mouthful of Salt to Pester the Birds

**Author's Note:**

> Greatest thanks for spnshortstories for making this wonderful book happen and for my beta for the provided help!
> 
> (you can find my story on page 221)

As far as Dean’s drinking habits and preferences go, there’s something extremely sacrilegious about downing sauté, saltless tequilas. And God, that’s got to be rich, coming from a demon which even back in his human days heavily endorsed the golden “fuck your asshole decorum and your stupid lawn” rule. Other bar patrons seem to share that opinion, judging from the glances they so charitably give him for free. Then again, it might have something to do with the number of drinks he’s already had in this hole today alone, dangerously many. He’s already past counting. And it’s still early. Yeah, that’s probably it.

It’s just that there’s only so long a guy can stare at wood panel walls in a clearly shit-inspired palette of browns with his hands idle and head too sharp to remain comfortably thoughtless. The karaoke doesn’t start for three more hours. Sex is currently unavailable because other honorable guests of this fine establishment are old coots. Also, all present bar staff still have a long shift to go and that aside, it looks like he’s lost his appeal and value in the eyes of any potential lays here after they all realized he basically drinks for a living and doesn’t do much else, which is so not trendy or whatever. Crowley vanished fuck knows where, to do whatever Crowley things that need to be done. His phone is as dead as Dean’s liver. And, of course, there’s the growing and growing itch in his arm, calling for blood and an improved body count, harder to ignore, even with all the liquor doing its very best to neutralize it. Time for another shot, then. Especially since his booze and all other sources of entertainment are powered by Crowley’s Moon owning royalties or wherever the fuck he gets Hell’s income from.

Doesn’t matter all that much as long as he gets the tools necessary to find out empirically if he can still get his ass wasted enough. Bored, he continues his experiment and makes a gesture to draw the

bartender’s attention. Except that, instead of his refill, he gets some interest that’s uncalled for.

“Why don’t you leave some for the other people here, buddy?”

For a second there, Dean’s too occupied with fantasizing about slicing the guy’s throat with the cell phone he’s currently holding to address that question. The thought paints a condescending yet satisfied smirk on his face, which rustles the old smelly dick’s jimmies further.

“You fucking deaf?!”

Someone really hates being ignored. And being alive. It’s like the assclown is begging natural selection for an intervention.

“Sorry, pal.” Dean smiles wider, withholding the black of his eyes, which would be the perfect glimpse into the idiot’s very timely demise he’s kind of about to deliver. “Was thinking how beautiful my fist would look plunged throat deep into your asshole.”

The idiot instantly lunges at him and it would be his last mistake if it weren’t for the fact that Crowley re-enters the bar in the least appropriate moment and separates Dean from clawing his way

through that stupid Drink Police Officer’s insides.

“Now, now, darling,” Crowley almost coos and just for the tone alone Dean thinks he’ll be spraying his partner’s in crime and shit future beers with piss and salt for the next few weeks. “We don’t want your widow Samantha to get his buttocks in shudders over finding about you rearranging this lovely place with moron bowels, do we?”

He pats Dean’s cheek patronizingly, which adds insult to, well, insult, since it’s hard to call that injury.

Dean’s pissed but it also effectively snaps him out of manslaughter-oriented bloodlust for a moment long and self-aware enough to make him wonder what the fuck he’s become if mutilating bar hobos is currently his priority. Not that he’s disturbed about it because he couldn’t possibly care less right now and probably also tomorrow, if he’ll be drunk or busy enough. Ideally though, he’d be both. About the mental shift, he’s just wondering, is all.

Yet, he stops. Still, remaining in a perfectly Sam-free environment might be the crown argument. He likes easy, simple, and convenient, after all.

“Fine,” he growls, freeing himself from Crowley’s reach.

One day, Dean’s gonna find the asshole in the pit, anyway. And he’s gonna be exclusively his for unmaking.

“Get out of here, you fucking fags,” the almost-victim snarls, earning himself a special Hell treatment voucher just for that because the bartender, Tony, a nice college kid and even nicer entertainment on various fronts, fidgets in discomfort behind the counter.

He shouldn’t feel scared because of pieces of shit like that one. Dean exchanges a look with Tony and promises himself he’ll carve Assface here into a Good Example. Maybe sooner than in Hell. Maybe already sometime next week.

That can wait. There are other bars to get a shit reputation in (hopefully with better karaoke), other moons to howl at. Perhaps they should upgrade to more memorable places. Too bad he’s avoiding big festivals since they could get Sam’s spidey senses tingling if he still thinks there’s something left of Dean worth salvaging. Speaking of which.

“Thanks,” he offers when the Impala’s doors shut behind them and the engine purrs so sweetly, ready to go wherever they want next.

Crowley looks at him with something that resembles softness and mockery having a really fugly baby.

“For not letting you dispose of some bipedal garbage, thus stopping you from further damaging your cinders of a conscience?” he inquires with a hint of amusement.

Dean huffs because that’s just stupid.

“For not giving Sam any potential Lego bricks to build a theory with. That is, if he isn’t busy playing car-bowling with any more dogs these days because I think he didn’t like the text I sent him some time ago”.

“You texted him?”

“He kept spamming my phone with grief poetry until I threw it away. It was annoying.”

“And?”

“I wrote back that if he texts me one more time, I’ll personally set him on fire and then put it out with an even bigger fire and finish with a rake.”

“Very thoughtful, very cute. And?”

“He whined whatever I am, I’m not his brother because I’d never say that. To be honest, the fact I also added I should’ve done that back in Cold Oak and that I’d only give back the first fire what rightfully still belongs to it, might’ve helped that assessment a little. My bet is he won’t self-resurrect until fall. He can be slow like that.”

“Hilarious but harsh, you have to admit, Dean. Regardless, I’m proud. Such a truly poetic way to sever ties. Didn’t simply burn the bridges, leveled the whole town,” Crowley sneers. “You’re in for a treat for the extra effort. Just when the leaves turn brown. Try not to gain attention or get on my nerve and you’ll be delighted.”

“Really? What’s that?”

“A Pie Festival in New Mexico.”

Dean guesses he’ll make an exception for that one.

“Well, there’s still some time to kill,” he tries to sound flat because weirdly, he feels sorta conflicted about it. Bad associations with his former life and shit. “Where to now?”

 


End file.
